The Sauk Centre herald. (Sauk Centre, Stearns County, Minn.) 1886-current, 1887-04-28
THE UNGLOVED HAND.

ing more than terrible his open, glazed
eyes; a bird sitting singing on his icy
hand; the black, round mark about his
throat; the half finished statue of Memory
in the moist clay; the open easement and
the carefully closed door.
That was all.
Yet no-you ask if there was no clew'
Two.
Little ones.
And yet one greater than the other.
The deep imprints of two hands,
right hand and q left-in the wet clay Of
the young artists last work.
The right hand was that of an aristo-
crat; the long, slender and tapered
fingers, the hollow, narrow palm, even
the impress of the oval nail tips lay there
clearly cut in the gray clay.
- The left was the hand of n vulgarian,
broad of palm, with short, thick fingers,
their fiat, wide tips sinking deep.
They were close beside each other.
They were friends.
They had been as close in their rela-
tons as humanity may be, for together, it
seemed, they had murdered Vladimir
| Dejnek.
TO whom had those two hands be-
longed?
1t was a ceaseless question, which no
one for years could reply to.
The aristocratic hand detectives, anato-
mists and experts decided was the hand
of q woman--a small, soft, sensitive palm,
lightly touching the object it met to sup
port it's owner on her hasty route across
the studio, and yet leaving its indelible
portrait staring there.
The other, the accomplice's hand-for
.;s-f1 toll 40
instigator and the vulgarian the hireling-
| was thought to be that of youth, terri
fled at his share of the crime, his strong
fingers having sunk deeply into the statue
of Memory.
Had Vladimir Dejnek any enemies7
All, well; mono that any one knew, but
when man is young, ardent, impas-
stoned, lovable, may he not have enemies
as well Us friends? Easily.
Did he love any one?
Oh, yes, yes; love is not an idle word; 1t
does the work Of many not yet invented.
And was he loved?
Truly.
By whom?
All, who knows.
Had he q model
Yes. She ceased coming a fortnight
before.
And who was she?
On, we'll, q young, tall woman, wrapped
always, even it this fine weather.
Did the statue resemble her?
Yes-ah! to be sure the face Of Memory
was blank; it had possibly not satisfied
Vladimir Dejnek, and that very morning,
very likely, he had obliterated it.
Could the model be found?
Nicholas, Paul and Katinka, the ser
wants of the dead man, thought that she
could.
Where?
At Virchow, Of course.
Was she found?
All, no.
And was there any one elses
To be sure; the new model! How
strange that they had not thought of her
before!
And she?
Young beautiful; oh! with eyes like the
rcipdeer's and long hair like the ripe silk
of the corn, and mouth as soft rs fungus
in the spring.
And her hands?
Well, well; that was too much
Nicholas, Paul and Katinka shook their
heads and murmured their prayers.
Yes, yes, she had hands truly-because
Eatinka had seen Vladimir Dejnek's large,
green, shining, jeweled ring sparkling on
the new models finger only the day be-
fore.
And where was she?
Oh, at Virchow; where else?
Was she found?
No.
So Vladimir Dejnek's relations settled
themselves into q stunned calm, and took
possession of his property quite naturally,
after spending many thousands of rubles
in vain attempts to discover his muir
derers.
Not trace of either women could be
had, and presently Chateau Monplaisir
echoed to the light laughter of the pretty
cousin of the last tenant and the innocent
prattlc of her children.
The pavilion was torn down, and in its
stead charming fountain played in the
warm weather jet high in the air.
The sculptor's tools were buried-and
| the unfinished, faceless statue of Mnemos-
yne.
Well, Vladimir Dejnek had friend
Ivan Ansaldi. These two men had loved
each other as men do once in WHILE very
truly, very deeply and tenderly; and Ivan
Ansaldi begged of the relatives of Vladi-
mir Dejnek that they would give him the
statue of Memory left unfinished in the
studio.
They gladly assented.
He tooirit away and had it baked and
painted and glazed, and kept it always
standing with long, dark cloth over it in
the drawing room of his apartment in
Moscow.
| And he swOre, could he but ever meet
| or find the owner of either of those hands,
he would avenge the death of Vladimir
Dejnek.
| Ivan Anssldi was the son of a southern
| father-he had passions, powers, capabili-
| ties all of the most accentuated descrip-
ton.
He was a man of about forty years of
| age, man of force and of intelligence; a
| little vain, but perhaps not too much SO.
He had had his successes; he had been
| loved in fact; he had had innumerable
''afrairs of the heart
| And here is paradox: Amid all these
| "affairs of the heart" he had ever sought
| without finding it-love!
| He had indeed two characters; with the
one he amused himself by hooking the
whole world, aud with the other?-well,
| he reserved the other, and very possibly
consoled himself with the absurd idea that
the day might come when he should show
it entirely to-some one.
Ivan Ansaldi had those melancholy yet
always brilliant eyes, which forever seem
to seek.
| And what do they seek?
1t is not for me to say.
He had travelled all over the earth look.
ing always-for what?
Fame? Riches?
Heaven knows! And perhaps he him
self, in the depths of his soul, knew also.
| At least he WAS very well aware thai
he had y yer yet found that thing which
he sought.
| He thought often of his friend vladimir
Dejnek; the idea Of vengeance slept within
him, but did not die.
Even tonight, when just about 70 star
for ball at the English ambassadors
Ivan, brushing past the statue, pullet
aside the dark cloth and stuck his fore
finger into the little aristocratic plac.
} nodded in the eiay--and then with an oatl
he drew it out, aud, drenehing his hand II
eau de cologne, left the room quickly.
1t was brilliant bal-this one TO whic,
be went